Lady of the Moon
by VigilSoul
Summary: What if Azkaban was is Voldemort's hands? Could one broken and drained Prisoner of War make the smallest difference? ... A lot more than you think.
1. Moonlight, Decisions, and Surprises

_AN: I don't own anything... I don't make anything. blahblah. You know the drill_

_This story was actually the first fanfic I ever wrote, and it's my favorite that I've done so far. Hope you like. VigilSoul_

**Lady of the Moon**

Silence. Unnatural quiet. The sound of nothingness. Cold and bleak, it surrounded him... clung to him like a heavy wet blanket. This was all he knew now. This was his life. This was Azkaban.

He was a prisoner of war. A POW. A nameless man in a numbered cell. The walls were a monotonous, depressing grey. A door of hard steel locked him in. Outside his cage stood the Dementors. The demon guards kept a constant vigil in the halls of Azkaban. Their presence was suffocating, and choked out all feelings of happiness. Only painful memories were left in their wake. Torturous memories relived again and again until the mind could take no more.

Yes. Just as the body will give out under tremendous pressure, the mind has its own release... the blessed freedom of insanity. Almost all the unfortunates in Azkaban eventually loose their minds. The Dementors made sure of it; they delighted in it. But he would not loose his mind. He had seen the unyielding grips of insanity before, and he refused to take that route. He would not let the Dementors steal his soul.

The only way to prevent the inevitable madness was to avoid their wrath. The evil minions thrived upon fear, and fortunately he did not fear them. He merely accepted their presence and they ignored his, leaving him alone in his thoughts.

His life was at a standstill, moving neither forward nor back. Time did not exist inside these walls, but outside the Earth still moved. The war began long ago. The dark forces of evil had risen again; the fight for humanity raged on. But he sensed a great change coming soon...

A stream of silver light poured through the small window of his cell. He stared out into the night sky, the full moon shined brightly. Closing his eyes, he let her encompassing beams wash over him, and relished in the feeling of her healing light. Taking deep, soothing breaths he began to feel stronger, and for the first time in months the oppressing weight seemed to lift off his shoulders.

The Magick forces were powerful. The air shimmered across his skin with an electric charge, energizing him. Magick coursed through him and around him; whispers of encouragement danced in the wind. Taking one last deep breath, his eyes slowly opened to his desolate surroundings. He turned his gaze again to the shining moon and smiled graciously at her. He knew what he must do, and he was determined now. It was time to act.

Knelt beside the locked door, ear pressed against the cold steel, he listened to the outside... nothing. All was still and quiet. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on feeling his surroundings. If a Dementor was nearby, he would know it; he would feel the cold emptiness of its presence. But he felt nothing.

Good. If he was indeed attempting an escape tonight, now was his best chance. And he would have to move quickly. Yet something held him back. Doubt began to fill his mind. Fear of being caught clouded his mind, diminishing his determination and freezing him in place. Through the fog of trepidation, a tiny voice in the back of his head began to whisper to him.

Sighing, he knelt on the floor near the window. Moonlight encircled him completely. He had never been a very religious person, and had never really believed in the old ways. But at that moment, he felt overwhelming compulsion to do something he had not done since childhood... he prayed.

Head bowed, he drew the sacred star over his heart. He slowly raised his head until his eyes find the glittering orb in the sky.

"Gracious Diana - " he started, but the sound came out like a wheeze. His voice had not been used since he was brought to Azkaban and now was weak from disuse. He coughed uncontrollably, and doubled over on all fours. Slowly the coughs dissipated, leaving his lungs sore and irritated. With trembling arms, he pulled himself up off the floor.  
His eyes once again locked on the glowing moon, and he felt her soothing rays upon his face. He raised his hands above his head in a salute. Stubbourn to the end... if he was going to do this, he would do it right.

"Gracious Diana, Lady of the Moon," he said in a much stronger voice.

"I call you this night to help me, I pray. Bless me with your protection, your love, and your guidance. Keep all harm from me, and let me walk in the circle of your light. So mote it be."

He paused a moment letting the moonlight pour over him, before getting back on his feet. He couldn't explain why he had just done that, but it felt like the right thing to do. Shaking his head in confusion, he turned his attention to the locked door.

He concentrated, yet still felt no Dementors. Rubbing his hand together and then taking a deep breath, he gently placed his right hand on the door. As he felt the energy rising in his body, he thought of all the times he had been underestimated in his life.

The growing tingling sensation at his fingertips reminded him of all the years he had spent keeping his true talents hidden. People were quick to assume that he was a harmless squib, never considering he might be more magically inclined than their strongest and wisest.

And never before now had he been so grateful for the oversight.

"Alohamora," he whispered, and felt the familiar burn of magick move through his right hand as the spell was cast. A loud 'click' resonated through his cell, and the steel door slowly swung open. He took a tentative step out of the cell. The long, dark hallway stood before him completely empty. The coast was clear.

Closing the cell door behind him, he took off into the unknown.


	2. A Sign and A Fall

He moved silently through the labyrinth of halls, passing cell after cell. A muffled cry came from behind one of the locked doors. Suddenly he stopped. Looking around at all the cells, he felt a pang of guilt. There were people in all the cells he passed. People. He couldn't leave them behind. Most, like him, were prisoners of war.

He placed his hand on the nearest cell, and whispered the unlocking spell. The door slowly opened. A woman of indiscernible age stared at him through hooded eyes. He slowly held out his hand to her.

"Come on, we're getting out of here," he said in the gentlest tone his damaged voice could produce. She looked at him confused. "We're going to escape. Let's go!" he tried once more.

Her confused stare suddenly changed to one of anger and fear. Before he knew what happened, she gave an inhuman shriek and attacked. He was tackled to the floor, and felt teeth pierce the flesh of his left shoulder. He let out a curse as the woman ripped handfuls of his hair out.

Tossing aside any pretenses he had about striking females, he kicked the crazed woman off him and quickly scrambled to his feet. She didn't even have time to stand before he ran out the cell and threw the door closed. Her screams vibrated through the hall.

He quickly cast a silencing spell, and slumped down on the opposite wall. Grimacing as he looked down at the torn flesh on his shoulder, he chastised himself for being so stupid. He knew most of the prisoners in Azkaban lost their minds. But what did he do? He foolishly wanted to save them all, and went charging head first into the nearest cell. Stupid Griffindor bravery...

Yet there were those like him who were still sane. Those who would jump at any chance to leave this forsaken place. It would take too much time to find the ones who were healthy enough to follow. And he needed to move quickly, all that noise was bound to alert someone, or something.

He pulled himself off the wall, and took off down the hall at a brisk pace. He paused once more as he reached the end of the hall, and looked back at all the cells... at all the souls locked inside. Not all of them were lost yet. His mind made up, he held his right hand up.

"Finite Incantatum," he murmured. A series of clicks echoed down the hall as cell after cell was unlocked. He smiled to himself.

Those who were sane would find their own way out. Those who weren't... well, no harm done.

* * *

And so he went... slinking through the halls of Azkaban, unlocking cells as he went. He did this for what seemed like hours, until the hall he was following abruptly ended in a t-junction. He stood at the junction undecided, not knowing which way to go. He looked left, the hall was dark and bare. He looked right, it was the same.

Suddenly a haunting screech spilt through the air. The Dementors were alert and ready to hunt. A sickening rush of panic overtook him; the demon guards were onto him. Prisoners were on the loose, and those who were caught would receive the Dementor's kiss.

Cold sweat broke out over his body. He needed to get a move on it, had to pick a direction and go as quickly as possible. He looked to the left corridor again, dark and foreboding. He looked to the right again... but it was different this time.

Moonlight, shining unnaturally bright, illuminated the corridor. If that wasn't a good sign, then he was a monkey's uncle. He dashed down the right corridor.

He ran blindly down the hallway, only guided by the light of the moon. The screeching and hissing of the Dementors could be heard from the junction he had just left. He ran faster, fear building in his chest.

The hissing grew louder; they were chasing after him. He pushed himself to run faster, faster, and faster. He ran, passing cell after cell, following twist after turn.

And he kept running down that never ending hall; he could feel the Dementors' cold breath on the back of his neck. It chilled him to the bone, but it didn't stop him. It only fueled the fire that had sprung up inside him. Escape was within his grasp, and he would not back down. He would not give up.

Stairs. He saw stairs up ahead. The corridor ended in a stairwell not too far away. It was the only route for him to go, and the Dementors were gaining on him. He put on an extra burst of speed and launched himself up the stairs without thinking, taking them three at a time.

Higher and higher the stairs went, and he climbed until he was sure he would touch the stars soon. The stairwell ended with a huge wooden door. Below him came a screech, the Dementors were almost there. He flung the door open, and charged through.

Only to skid to a halt. He was on the tower's roof, a low parapet the only thing standing between him and the night sky. An icy gust of wind whipped through him as he cautiously looked over the stone wall. Far below raged unyielding black waters.

A low, monstrous hiss came from behind him; all air left his lungs . He turned, muscles tense with fear.

There stood an impossibly tall, black cloaked creature in the doorway. A large hood covered its head, hiding the creature's ungodly face. His heart shank; the Dementors had him cornered. There was no escape.

The Dementor slowly moved closer, as though stalking prey. He took an involuntary step backwards, hitting the stone parapet. He looked over once more... it was a long way down. He glanced at the approaching Dementor. He had to choose: take the fall and be killed, or stand here and receive the Dementor's kiss. His options were not good.

His terror froze him; he couldn't move. The Dementor was close enough to touch now, the penetrating cold of its presence clouding his thoughts. The creature reached out, its long white hands grazed his cheek. He jerked back as though burned. The Dementor was preparing to take his soul.

He pushed the creature back with all his might, sending it sprawling. The Dementor hissed angrily, but he wasn't paying attention to it anymore. He stood on the stone wall, arms outstretched, gazing into the murky waters below. Above him, the moon shone brightly, and his eyes once more locked on the silver globe.

"_Let me walk in the circle of your light..." _he whispered. And then he jumped. He plunged into the raging dark water below, trusting the powers-that-be to keep him safe.


	3. Liberated and Alerted

Cold... wet...

Floating... endless drifting...

Something solid... sandy...

Black waves sloshed up into his face. Eyelids, weighing a thousand tons, gradually opened. He was lying on shore. He was alive... but more importantly, he had escaped Azkaban.

He was free! Never before had he felt so liberated, so open, so weightless. He was free and it was the most wonderful feeling in the world.

With some effort, he pulled himself into sitting position. He could see the prison's silhouette far out in the water. Gusts of wind carried the distant screeches of Dementors and cheers of fleeing prisoners to his ears. Dark figures moved in the water, more escapees were swimming to shore.

Azkaban was in a state of chaos. Prisoners were escaping and the Dementors were blinded by their rage. If the Ministry ever tried to retake Azkaban, now would be the perfect time.

He glanced over his shoulder; scouts and spies from the Order of the Phoenix kept a constant watch over Azkaban for such an opportunity. All they needed was the signal. Hands reaching to the heavens, he filled the sky with a series of sparks: blue, red, then green.

Completely exhausted, he collapsed back on the sandy shore. A hearty, joyful laugh erupted from low in his chest. He was free, as were many others. And by the end of the night, Azkaban would finally be in the right hands again. The Gods had been with him tonight, and he had done well.

Lying on the damp shore, he stared blankly at the stars above. The full moon still hung brightly in the sky, acting as a shining blessing on this fateful night. Her protective beams surrounded him, and he slowly drifted into a deep sleep. His first peaceful sleep in many months.


	4. Back in the Game

The days that followed were filled with a thousand and one medical tests, an abundance of healing potions, and lots of sleep. He was strong and healthy again. But he was restless, too many days of doing nothing. It was time to get back in the game.

He found himself at Hogwarts, with many other Azkaban escapees assembled around a very large round table. He wasn't the only one anxious to help in the war. Looking around the table, he saw many of his old schoolmates. Dean Thomas, Terry Boot, Penelope Clearwater, and Lee Jordan were a few he recognized.

They were only in their early twenties, yet they looked much older. He would admit that even he looked older than his twenty-one years. But Azkaban tended to age people beyond their years.

During the months he had been locked away, the fighting had become much more intense. He was personally more partial to gathering information and espionage, but if the Death Eaters wanted a head-on fight, he would give them one. Professor Dumbledore led the conversation, bringing everyone up to date on the status of the war.

The Dark Lord's forces and the Ministry's were neck and neck; both sides had taken some heavy beatings. But it seemed with the recent Azkaban takeover, the tides were turning in their favor.

The meeting adjourns, but many of the others linger. They wish to speak with Professor Dumbledore; ask who they should report to, where their talents are needed most, etc. He didn't need the Headmaster to assign him where to go.

He usually worked alone, gathering information from the fringe of the wizarding world. He stood, collecting his things to leave. He needed to get started right away, reestablish his old contacts and informants.

He had always been like that. He preferred functioning behind the curtain, where no one knew what really goes on. No one even knew that he was responsible for the Breakout of Azkaban. He liked it that way. He liked blending in with the crowd; it kept his life private. And that suited him.

He was almost out the door when he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He turned around and found Professor Dumbledore was the one delaying his departure. He was confused, and it must have shown on his face.

"I need to speak with you, privately," Professor Dumbledore whispered in his ear. He nodded his consent. "Meet me in my office, the password is _licorice spiders_," Dumbledore's eyes twinkled at him. "I trust you know the way?"

"Of course, Headmaster," he replied and Professor Dumbledore went back to the table to talk more with many lingering wizards and witches. He turned and then made his way up to the Headmaster's office.


	5. Out of the Shadows, Into the Light

He arrived at the Headmaster's office with no trouble. He hadn't been in this room since his seventh year. Gazing around the room, he decided not much had changed. The portraits of the past Hogwarts' Headmasters slept quietly in their frames. A musical warble came from the corner.

"Hello Fawkes," he said. The phoenix nodded his head and whistled a reply. He sat down in the armchair in front of Professor Dumbledore's desk. Sighing deeply, he slouched farther into the chair. He had a feeling he was not going to like this little _talk_ with the Headmaster.

Sensing his discomfort, Fawkes jumped down from the perch and landed in his lap. The phoenix nibbled at his ear and cooed affectionately. He reached up to pet the magnificent bird, already feeling a bit better. The bird responded by singing more enthusiastically.

"Thanks Fawkes," he said to the bird. The phoenix's song was very soothing, and took away all his apprehensions. He sat like that for a while, mindlessly petting the magical animal who had fallen asleep in his lap, and he waited for the Headmaster to arrive.

At last, he heard the large doors behind him open as Professor Dumbledore entered.

"I apologize for keeping you waiting," the Headmaster said and took a seat behind the large desk. "Ah, I see Fawkes has made himself quite comfortable." The bird's head rose at the sound of its name, but decided nothing needed its attention, and went back to sleep on his lap.

"You wanted to speak with me, Headmaster?" he asked. Professor Dumbledore bridged his hands across his chest.

"Yes, I did," the Headmaster said and stared at him for moment. The old man's eyes held none of their usual merriment; they were calculating. Irritated at being observed like a lab rat, he began to shift uncomfortably in his seat. Fawkes woke up and huffed at him before flying back onto the perch. Professor Dumbledore still silently watched him.

"About what, Sir?" he asked annoyed. The Headmaster quirked an eyebrow at him, as though he should already know.

"I wanted to know," Dumbledore started, "how much of the Azkaban incident was your doing?"

The blood drained from his face... Dumbledore was always suspicious of his powers. And judging by the intense expression, the old man knew now. Even if he knew how to respond, he wasn't sure if he could. He merely raised his eyebrows.

"As I thought," Dumbledore said. "In that case, I am in your debt. Many of our best people were freed that night, and it may be what we needed to turn the tides on Voldemorte." He still could not say anything. He couldn't even make eye contact anymore; his gaze was locked on his feet which he shuffled around nervously. Professor Dumbledore rose from behind the desk and began pacing.

"I would recommend you to the Ministry for the Order of Merlin, First Class," the Headmaster said. He felt his heart sink in his chest. To refuse such an offer was unheard of, but how he hated people knowing anything about him. How he despised unwanted attention.

"But I suspect you wouldn't want that?"

His fidgeting stopped immediately, and his head shot up at the question. He gave a mental scream as his eyes locked with the Headmaster's. The old man was reading him like an open book, and that pissed him off to no end. The walls he had so carefully constructed around him were crumbling under Dumbledore's scrutiny.

He mentally braced himself for the argument that was coming. He'd had this conversation so many times before with his family.

"I'm afraid I don't understand your ways," the older man said, and sighed deeply. "In my opinion, you are undoubtedly one of the strongest wizards of this time. Yet you keep everyone from knowing." Again, he found himself looking down at his feet. He was tired of hearing this same speech over and over.

"You keep yourself hidden," Dumbledore continued. "You do extraordinary deeds for wizarding-kind, and then you conceal any trace of your involvement." Dumbledore stopped his pacing directly in front of him.

"Why do you insist on hiding you talents?" Dumbledore demanded. He snorted and rolled his eyes (which were still fascinated with his feet).

At some point he must have stopped paying attention to what was being said, for several minutes had passed. And now Dumbledore was watching him... waiting for an answer, or possibly an explination.

"With respect, Headmaster," he said condescendingly as he brought his gaze to match Dumbledore's, "if I had flaunted my powers, as you're suggesting, the Azkaban break would have never been possible. I certainly wouldn't have been able to pull it off. My hands would have been mutilated the moment I arrived, and we'd all still be stuck there," he said angrily. Professor Dumbledore looked taken aback; not many people these days had the gall to argue with the Headmaster.

"My secrets have their benefits, as you well know now."

After a very tense moment, the old man nodded his head in grudging agreement.

"True. Very true," Dumbledore said and sat down again. The Headmaster continued to observe the young man before him. "If you will not accept my offer for recommendations, then at least consider my other offer," the Headmaster said. He sighed in defeat, and settled more comfortably into the chair. He would have to hear the old man out, whether he wanted to or not.

"I want you to join the Order of the Phoenix." He immediately stood objecting to what was being said, but before he could get in one word of argument the Headmaster was already motioning for him to sit.

"You may as well have the title," Dumbledore said. "The information you provide the Order with is always more accurate than what our spies report. You've fought with us in every major battle, and you've saved our necks more than a few times." Dumbledore paused a moment, letting the younger man digest what was being said.

"You are one of our best spies and greatest fighters. At least, officially, be part of the Order."

This was not as simple a question as Dumbledore made it sound. This was a major decision for him. It went against all he had strived for. He was used to living in the shadows, and the Headmaster was asking him to walk out into the light, to leave the comfort and protection of his world.

It was not his way, and Dumbledore knew that. But Dumbledore was also offering him a better life, one of hope and promise.

"I'll consider it, Sir," he said after a long delay.

"That's all I ask, my boy. That's all I ask," Professor Dumbledore said cheerfully. He rose from his seat, and gave Fawkes one last pet on the head, and then fastened his cloak around him.

"I'll be in London all week... trying to restore my old contacts," he said still not meeting the Headmaster's gaze, "but I'll give you my answer no later than Friday." Dumbledore rose to walk him to the door.

"That would be most appreciated," said the headmaster, but the old man's eyes twinkled as though he had already given his answer. Reaching the door, Dumbledore once again held him by the shoulder. The old man gazed deep into his eyes, as though truly seeing him for the first time, and then smiled broadly... proudly.

"It's good to have you back, Mr. Longbottom"

"It's good to be back, Sir," Neville said. He brought the hood on his cloak down, obscuring his face from view.

And then he left the Headmaster's office; he still had much work to do. He walked through the familiar halls of childhood at a confident pace. His steps didn't falter until he was outside the great castle. The night air filled his lungs, and he was once again overjoyed. He was not yet used to breathing as a free man.

Overhead, the stars shone brightly, and Neville found himself looking for the familiar silver of the moon. He saw a sliver of her in the distance. While gazing at her, an overwhelming feeling of gratitude came over him.

"Thank you," he whispered, and then he bowed deeply to her.


End file.
